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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675479">Howl, and Other Coping Mechanisms</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyrene/pseuds/cyrene'>cyrene</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dead Poets Society (1989)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Discussion of canon major character death, Gen, M/M, Todd needs a support system, Todd's Parents and their A+ parenting skills, depression and suicidal ideation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:13:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,739</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675479</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyrene/pseuds/cyrene</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Todd won't get out of bed, so I got him a support system.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Todd Anderson/Neil Perry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Howl, and Other Coping Mechanisms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've had ennui lately, and this is what came of it. I should apologize, but I refuse.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In another life, Todd Anderson stays at Hellton over the Christmas break, like he and Neil had originally intended to. They spend their days curled up in bed, Neil reading Shakespeare and Todd reading Sara Teasdale.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you think I could play Romeo?” Neil asks. “Or should I try for Mercutio?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Neil,” Todd says softly, “l-listen to this…” and he reads out a poem, without a trace of a stutter, about being so in love it’s like fire, hoping Neil will understand what he really means.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He does. Bless him, Neil Perry understands Todd Anderson. So, after kissing Todd sweetly and thoroughly, what Neil says is, “I love you too.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When he can’t get out of bed in the morning, Todd plays and replays this fantasy in his mind. It’s more comforting, somehow, to fantasize about a future that’s been snatched away than it is to reminisce about things that have actually happened.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd’s parents are Very Concerned about him. He knows this, because they get quiet whenever he enters the room. He knows this because they have a fight in front of the decorators about what to do about him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd hides on the stairs, his fists shoved into his ears while his father threatens to take him out back to “straighten him out” and tries not to laugh. It would be a totally inappropriate response, and he doesn’t even know how to explain the urge. Something about the image of his father beating the depressed gay poet out of him is hilarious in its horror.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s something he would tell Neil about, late at night when it’s too dark to see and they aren’t too afraid to confess.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“They’re so concerned about me,” he would laugh, “but not <em>so concerned</em> that they need to cancel the Christmas party, or, you know, take me to a doctor.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And Neil would compliment Todd’s parents on their priorities, on their “A+ parenting skills” as he always liked to call it. Maybe counter with something his father had done recently.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Neil would have understood, bones-deep.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The morning of the Christmas party, Todd doesn’t get out of bed until ten-thirty. It would have been much later, but his mother had started knocking on his door at eight. Eight in the goddamn morning for a stupid party that doesn’t start for another twelve hours. What could Todd possibly be expected to do in all that time?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He can’t even find the motivation to move, and he really has to piss. But, like, what’s the point? What’s the point of getting up, just to prepare for this stupid party he doesn’t even want to go to?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wants to hide in his room and add to the ever-growing pile of papers he keeps in a lock box, all containing poetry about the Dead Poets Society, but especially featuring Neil Perry. None of it will ever be published, but it’s Todd’s story, and it’s what gets him from one day to the next. It’s his suicide note, some days, and other’s it’s his beloved craft, the promise of his future.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The day passes in a blur of chores and last-minute preparations. His mother is despairing that Todd has neglected to get a haircut, saying he looks like a beatnik. Todd doesn’t know how to take that, so he stutters out an apology and escapes as soon as he can.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next thing he knows, the party is in full swing, and his mother is pulling him over to straighten his tie and admonish him to make a good impression on their guests. In particular, she wants to introduce him to Carol, the daughter of someone-or-other, Todd isn’t really paying attention until he notices the adults (and Carol) are all staring at him expectantly. He’s been set up, he realizes too late.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I-I can show you where the food is?” Todd offers, scratching the back of his head cluelessly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That would be nice,” Carol accepts graciously. “I’m famished!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m so sorry,” she says when they leave their parents behind. “I don’t know why they’re doing this to us. I mean, it’s almost 1960 for goodness sake! Are arranged marriages even a thing any more?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not at seventeen, I hope,” Todd manages to get out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol laughs, “Well, there’s a small hope. Would you mind terribly if we spent time together anyway? It’s just my ex is here and I’d rather be seen smiling and laughing than moping in the corner. Which was my original plan, by the way.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd finds her smile infectious, like one of Nuwanda’s grins, and he can’t help returning it with a small nod.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re a man of few words, Todd. I like that about you, as I am a woman of many. We’ll get along fine. Now let’s get a drink and you just pretend like I said something hilarious.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd finds himself laughing, for real. Not much, and not loudly, but it’s there all the same. His first real laugh since Neil died. Something breaks in Todd’s heart, where he didn’t even know there was anything left to break, and the laugh dies.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey,” Carol says, putting a concerned hand on his arm, “what’s wrong, there, champ? You look like you just saw a ghost.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And maybe he has. The same ghost he had been seeing for weeks now, the one that will haunt him the rest of his life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Come on,” Carol urges him. “You look like you could use a smoke.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd wants to protest that he doesn’t smoke, but she drags him by the coat sleeve. They sneak past the adults, upstairs to Todd’s room. Carol opens the window, the one that always sticks a bit in the winter, and soon the smell of tobacco smoke is rolling over Todd. Funny, how it reminds him of the poets more than anything else.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Travesty. Horror. Decadence. Excrement.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’ve all written to him. He hasn’t written back. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that the effort it would take would be monumental and he hasn’t had that kind of energy lately.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Who broke your heart?” Carol asks lightly, pulling him from his thoughts as she offers him the cigarette.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd takes it and, without thinking, says, “My boyfriend committed suicide three weeks ago.” He says it before he can gauge the wisdom of saying it, he says it because he’s not said it yet, and he needs to inflict the knowledge onto someone who hasn’t been going through what he’s been going through. (The poets, of course, are all exempt from this wrath, as is Keating.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol’s mouth makes a perfect O, and then she says, “I am so sorry, Todd. Is there anything I can do to help? God, I can’t believe you let me go on about my stupid ex.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“To be fair, I-I wasn’t really listening,” Todd admits. He’s in awe of how well she’s taking this. He did say the word boyfriend aloud, didn’t he?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s okay,” Carol says earnestly, “you had bigger things on your mind than me and Betty.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd looks up sharply. “Betty?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol shrugs lightly. “Can’t help it, you know?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Oh, Todd knows. He nods once, then holds his hand out for the cigarette. The smoke feels harsh in his throat and he coughs a little.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, what’s next for you, then?” she asks, and he hates the pity in her eyes as much as he craves it. “I mean, like, what do you want to be when you grow up?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A writer,” Todd answers honestly, and in a fit of madness, he shows her the lockbox where he keeps his poems.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Todd,” she says, flipping through them, “these are really, really good. Have you considered publishing them?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd laughs, and points her to one in particular, which contains a detail of the constellations of freckles on Neil Perry’s body. “No one’s going to publish these, Carol.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But Carol is looking at him shrewdly. “My uncle is in publishing. I’m not supposed to know about it because of the obscenity trial, but I think he would really like this. Honestly, Todd, I think he would love it. Get it all together, type it up, and I’ll send it to him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd’s mouth is dry, and not just from the smoking. “Carol,” he says, his voice high and panicked, “I don’t know about this. I’m supposed to go to college, and be a –”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Carol interrupts, “but you’re not a... whatever it is your parents have their heart set on. You’re a poet, Todd. That’s not something you can turn off or keep hidden. This,” she gestures to the pile of papers in front of them, “this is who you are. I should say thank you, for showing me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“W-what did you mean about the obscenity trial?” Todd asks, his panic rising.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, that. It’s nothing. Have you ever read Ginsberg?” she asks him, seemingly out of nowhere. Todd shakes his head. “I’ll get you a copy of ‘Howl’; I think you’ll understand then. In the meantime, you just get your manuscript together.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd has one more question, though. “Why are you doing this for me?” he asks. “We only just met.” He doesn’t think he can stand it if the answer is just pity.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But her eyes are sparking with fire as she forces him to meet her gaze. “I don’t need a long time to believe in you, Todd Anderson. I can see just fine that you’re a person of worth, and incredibly talented too. Besides,” and now she looks a little unsure, “we queers ought to help each other out, don’t you think?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd nods, a slow smile unfurling. “I-I don’t know how I’ll ever return the f-favor, but thank you anyway.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They spend the rest of the party playing card games on Todd’s floor, and Todd gets in trouble for bringing her up to his room, even though Carol insists it was her idea and Todd can’t fathom what they think he might be doing. It’s as if his parents don’t know him at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next day, Todd gets out of bed at ten-thirty all on his own. It’s not early, certainly not as early as he’s used to, but he feels a sense of accomplishment as he gets dressed, shuffling across the room in the woolen socks his parents got him for Christmas until he sits down in front of his typewriter. The stack of poems is next to him, roughly one hundred and fifty pages and scraps of paper and napkins from the silver dispenser in the diner they stopped at on their way home, all of them taunting Todd to begin typing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He goes to bed as the sun is just peeking over the horizon, coming up to start the next day. He only gets a few hours of sleep, because his mother’s version of worrying about him means he has to get up and get dressed, but it’s worth it. It’s typed, and all in what surely must be the final, the correct order. It’s ready to send to Carol, for her to send to her uncle, the mysteriously obscene publisher.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He debates the wisdom of sending it for three days, until a package comes for him in the mail, along with a letter from Knox. The package is from Carol, and it’s very small, wrapped in brown paper next to his plate at dinner.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What have you got there, Todd?” his mother asks. She’s adjusting her earrings and straightening her scarf in the mirror. Todd’s parents, as they usually do, are going out for dinner.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s from Carol. Remember from the party? She’s sent me—” he opens the brown paper carefully, the way he would a brightly wrapped Christmas present. Inside, lies a slim, white volume. “Howl and other Poems by Allen Ginsberg” reads the cover in stark black letters. “A book of poetry.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd’s parents look at each other with a smug satisfaction that makes Todd’s chest flare with hatred. They think they’ve won something over him, now, and they just haven’t. And they will never, ever understand.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the back of his mind, Todd sees Neil’s broad grin, and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He spends the night reading “Howl”. He reads the whole book, but “Howl” he reads three times on its own. He understands, now, what Carol was talking about. He’s never missed Keating more. He wants the man’s opinion on this, wants to hear it read aloud in that deep, emotional voice.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He still hasn’t opened the letter from Knox. It sits, with the rest of the poet’s letters. Instead, Todd simply writes to them. One by one, each of them gets a letter, and they’re short, and they all say basically the same thing, but he hopes it’s enough to convince them he’s okay for now. The effort is exhausting, and Todd lets out a huff of breath as he walks back from the mailbox, flag standing at attention to alert the postman of the letters inside. He sleeps as long as he can that day, and mopes for a while.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They say that what you’re doing at midnight on New Year’s determines how the rest of your year will go, and Todd hopes that isn’t the case, because he’s crying in the fetal position in his bed, deep under the covers, alone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next thing Todd knows, it’s time to go back to school. Todd is on academic probation for his involvement with the Dead Poets Society, and especially for that stunt where they all stood on the desks. His parents are not pleased, and remind him that any slip-up could result in his expulsion, and he should have no doubt that he’ll be shipped to a military school if that is the case. Like Todd doesn’t have enough pressure on him already.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then he’s alone, in the room he used to share with Neil. Todd sits down at the window and contemplates whether he has enough energy for sobbing, or if he should just let the tears roll down his face in peace and quiet. But then the door opens, and Knox peeks in, his face lighting up when his gaze falls on Todd. Meeks and Pitts come in behind them, and that’s it. This is all that remains of the poets. The absence of Neil and Nuwanda, each for their own separate reason, is staggering in its grief.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’re all talking at once, and Todd isn’t listening. It’s all noise in the background.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I-I want to read you guys something,” he says suddenly. He’s holding the stack of carbons that make up his manuscript. He shows them the front page, which reads in small font, “The Dead Poets Society, by Todd Anderson”. “I-i sent it off to a p-publisher.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’re all looking at him with deadly serious faces when Knox says, “Not here.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Todd nods. They will go to the cave tonight. And Todd will read as long as it takes, until they’ve heard his story and understand why he is the way he is, and maybe, just maybe, one of them will know what to do about it. It’s not like they didn’t know about him and Neil. But <em>that</em> knowing is not the same as <em>this</em> knowing, and Todd wants them to know. He wants to be understood, and known in a way he hasn’t felt in weeks, not since the night of Neil’s play.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wants to know the way forward, and they can help him with that, because they are also struggling with what it means to live in the <em>after</em>. They can help him and, for the first time, Todd really wants to be helped. He had told Neil that he could take care of himself, but the magic of Neil was that he took care of Todd anyway. They were friends first, and could lean on each other, and he’s thinking the other poets won’t mind if he applies that principle to their friendship as well.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For the first time in weeks, Todd can’t wait for something, and the anticipation prickles under his skin like a chill. He sits in his room, no longer empty, and waits for the night to come, when they will, in defiance of all the adults in their lives, venture once more into the cave and hold the first Dead Poets Society meeting of 1960.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
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